A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court

It was in Warwick Castle that I came across the curious stranger whom I am going to talk about.  He attracted me by three things:  his candid simplicity, his marvelous familiarity with ancient armor, and the restfulness of his company—­for he did all the talking.  We fell together, as modest people will, in the tail of the herd that was being shown through, and he at once began to say things which interested me.  As he talked along, softly, pleasantly, flowingly, he seemed to drift away imperceptibly out of this world and time, and into some remote era and old forgotten country; and so he gradually wove such a spell about me that I seemed to move among the specters and shadows and dust and mold of a gray antiquity, holding speech with a relic of it!  Exactly as I would speak of my nearest personal friends or enemies, or my most familiar neighbors, he spoke of Sir Bedivere, Sir Bors de Ganis, Sir Launcelot of the Lake, Sir Galahad, and all the other great names of the Table Round—­and how old, old, unspeakably old and faded and dry and musty and ancient he came to look as he went on!  Presently he turned to me and said, just as one might speak of the weather, or any other common matter—­

“You know about transmigration of souls; do you know about transposition of epochs—­and bodies?”

I said I had not heard of it.  He was so little interested—­just as when people speak of the weather—­that he did not notice whether I made him any answer or not.  There was half a moment of silence, immediately interrupted by the droning voice of the salaried cicerone: 

“Ancient hauberk, date of the sixth century, time of King Arthur and the Round Table; said to have belonged to the knight Sir Sagramor le Desirous; observe the round hole through the chain-mail in the left breast; can’t be accounted for; supposed to have been done with a bullet since invention of firearms—­perhaps maliciously by Cromwell’s soldiers.”

My acquaintance smiled—­not a modern smile, but one that must have gone out of general use many, many centuries ago—­and muttered apparently to himself: 

“Wit ye well, I saw it done.”  Then, after a pause, added:  “I did it myself.”

By the time I had recovered from the electric surprise of this remark, he was gone.

All that evening I sat by my fire at the Warwick Arms, steeped in a dream of the olden time, while the rain beat upon the windows, and the wind roared about the eaves and corners.  From time to time I dipped into old Sir Thomas Malory’s enchanting book, and fed at its rich feast of prodigies and adventures, breathed in the fragrance of its obsolete names, and dreamed again.  Midnight being come at length, I read another tale, for a nightcap—­this which here follows, to wit: 

HOW SIR LAUNCELOT SLEW TWO GIANTS, AND MADE A CASTLE FREE

Anon withal came there upon him two great giants, well armed, all save the heads, with two horrible clubs in their hands.  Sir Launcelot put his shield afore him, and put the stroke away of the one giant, and with his sword he clave his head asunder.  When his fellow saw that, he ran away as he were wood [demented], for fear of the horrible strokes, and Sir Launcelot after him with all his might, and smote him on the shoulder, and clave him to the middle.  Then Sir Launcelot went into the hall, and there came afore him three score ladies and damsels, and all kneeled unto him, and thanked God and him of their deliverance.  For, sir, said they, the most part of us have been here this seven year their prisoners, and we have worked all manner of silk works for our meat, and we are all great gentle-women born, and blessed be the time, knight, that ever thou wert born; for thou hast done the most worship that ever did knight in the world, that will we bear record, and we all pray you to tell us your name, that we may tell our friends who delivered us out of prison.  Fair damsels, he said, my name is Sir Launcelot du Lake.  And so he departed from them and betaught them unto God.  And then he mounted upon his horse, and rode into many strange and wild countries, and through many waters and valleys, and evil was he lodged.  And at the last by fortune him happened against a night to come to a fair courtilage, and therein he found an old gentle-woman that lodged him with a good-will, and there he had good cheer for him and his horse.  And when time was, his host brought him into a fair garret over the gate to his bed.  There Sir Launcelot unarmed him, and set his harness by him, and went to bed, and anon he fell on sleep.  So, soon after there came one on horseback, and knocked at the gate in great haste.  And when Sir Launcelot heard this he rose up, and looked out at the window, and saw by the moonlight three knights come riding after that one man, and all three lashed on him at once with swords, and that one knight turned on them knightly again and defended him.  Truly, said Sir Launcelot, yonder one knight shall I help, for it were shame for me to see three knights on one, and if he be slain I am partner of his death.  And therewith he took his harness and went out at a window by a sheet down to the four knights, and then Sir Launcelot said on high, Turn you knights unto me, and leave your fighting with that knight.  And then they all three left Sir Kay, and turned unto Sir Launcelot, and there began great battle, for they alight all three, and strake many strokes at Sir Launcelot, and assailed him on every side.  Then Sir Kay dressed him for to have holpen Sir Launcelot.  Nay, sir, said he, I will none of your help, therefore as ye will have my help let me alone with them.  Sir Kay for the pleasure of the knight suffered him for to do his will, and so stood aside.  And then anon within six strokes Sir Launcelot had stricken them to the earth.

And then they all three cried, Sir Knight, we yield us unto you as man of might matchless.  As to that, said Sir Launcelot, I will not take your yielding unto me, but so that ye yield you unto Sir Kay the seneschal, on that covenant I will save your lives and else not.  Fair knight, said they, that were we loath to do; for as for Sir Kay we chased him hither, and had overcome him had ye not been; therefore, to yield us unto him it were no reason.  Well, as to that, said Sir Launcelot, advise you well, for ye may choose whether ye will die or live, for an ye be yielden, it shall be unto Sir Kay.  Fair knight, then they said, in saving our lives we will do as thou commandest us.  Then shall ye, said Sir Launcelot, on Whitsunday next coming go unto the court of King Arthur, and there shall ye yield you unto Queen Guenever, and put you all three in her grace and mercy, and say that Sir Kay sent you thither to be her prisoners.  On the morn Sir Launcelot arose early, and left Sir Kay sleeping; and Sir Launcelot took Sir Kay’s armor and his shield and armed him, and so he went to the stable and took his horse, and took his leave of his host, and so he departed.  Then soon after arose Sir Kay and missed Sir Launcelot; and then he espied that he had his armor and his horse.  Now by my faith I know well that he will grieve some of the court of King Arthur; for on him knights will be bold, and deem that it is I, and that will beguile them; and because of his armor and shield I am sure I shall ride in peace.  And then soon after departed Sir Kay, and thanked his host.

As I laid the book down there was a knock at the door, and my stranger came in.  I gave him a pipe and a chair, and made him welcome.  I also comforted him with a hot Scotch whisky; gave him another one; then still another—­hoping always for his story.  After a fourth persuader, he drifted into it himself, in a quite simple and natural way: 

THE STRANGER’S HISTORY

I am an American.  I was born and reared in Hartford, in the State of Connecticut—­anyway, just over the river, in the country.  So I am a Yankee of the Yankees—­and practical; yes, and nearly barren of sentiment, I suppose—­or poetry, in other words.  My father was a blacksmith, my uncle was a horse doctor, and I was both, along at first.  Then I went over to the great arms factory and learned my real trade; learned all there was to it; learned to make everything:  guns, revolvers, cannon, boilers, engines, all sorts of labor-saving machinery.  Why, I could make anything a body wanted—­anything in the world, it didn’t make any difference what; and if there wasn’t any quick new-fangled way to make a thing, I could invent one—­and do it as easy as rolling off a log.  I became head superintendent; had a couple of thousand men under me.

Well, a man like that is a man that is full of fight—­that goes without saying.  With a couple of thousand rough men under one, one has plenty of that sort of amusement.  I had, anyway.  At last I met my match, and I got my dose.  It was during a misunderstanding conducted with crowbars with a fellow we used to call Hercules.  He laid me out with a crusher alongside the head that made everything crack, and seemed to spring every joint in my skull and made it overlap its neighbor.  Then the world went out in darkness, and I didn’t feel anything more, and didn’t know anything at all —­at least for a while.

When I came to again, I was sitting under an oak tree, on the grass, with a whole beautiful and broad country landscape all to myself—­nearly.  Not entirely; for there was a fellow on a horse, looking down at me—­a fellow fresh out of a picture-book.  He was in old-time iron armor from head to heel, with a helmet on his head the shape of a nail-keg with slits in it; and he had a shield, and a sword, and a prodigious spear; and his horse had armor on, too, and a steel horn projecting from his forehead, and gorgeous red and green silk trappings that hung down all around him like a bedquilt, nearly to the ground.

“Fair sir, will ye just?” said this fellow.

“Will I which?”

“Will ye try a passage of arms for land or lady or for—­”

“What are you giving me?” I said.  “Get along back to your circus, or I’ll report you.”

Now what does this man do but fall back a couple of hundred yards and then come rushing at me as hard as he could tear, with his nail-keg bent down nearly to his horse’s neck and his long spear pointed straight ahead.  I saw he meant business, so I was up the tree when he arrived.

He allowed that I was his property, the captive of his spear.  There was argument on his side—­and the bulk of the advantage —­so I judged it best to humor him.  We fixed up an agreement whereby I was to go with him and he was not to hurt me.  I came down, and we started away, I walking by the side of his horse.  We marched comfortably along, through glades and over brooks which I could not remember to have seen before—­which puzzled me and made me wonder—­and yet we did not come to any circus or sign of a circus.  So I gave up the idea of a circus, and concluded he was from an asylum.  But we never came to an asylum—­so I was up a stump, as you may say.  I asked him how far we were from Hartford.  He said he had never heard of the place; which I took to be a lie, but allowed it to go at that.  At the end of an hour we saw a far-away town sleeping in a valley by a winding river; and beyond it on a hill, a vast gray fortress, with towers and turrets, the first I had ever seen out of a picture.

“Bridgeport?” said I, pointing.

“Camelot,” said he.

My stranger had been showing signs of sleepiness.  He caught himself nodding, now, and smiled one of those pathetic, obsolete smiles of his, and said: 

“I find I can’t go on; but come with me, I’ve got it all written out, and you can read it if you like.”

In his chamber, he said:  “First, I kept a journal; then by and by, after years, I took the journal and turned it into a book.  How long ago that was!”

He handed me his manuscript, and pointed out the place where I should begin: 

“Begin here—­I’ve already told you what goes before.”  He was steeped in drowsiness by this time.  As I went out at his door I heard him murmur sleepily:  “Give you good den, fair sir.”

I sat down by my fire and examined my treasure.  The first part of it—­the great bulk of it—­was parchment, and yellow with age.  I scanned a leaf particularly and saw that it was a palimpsest.  Under the old dim writing of the Yankee historian appeared traces of a penmanship which was older and dimmer still—­Latin words and sentences:  fragments from old monkish legends, evidently.  I turned to the place indicated by my stranger and began to read —­as follows: 

THE TALE OF THE LOST LAND